by Lee Goldberg
"Good afternoon, sir," the man said, taking Mark's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "Welcome to United Furniture Company. How can I help you today?"
You can start by shutting off the music and turning down the air conditioner, Mark thought. But he said, "I'm looking for Victor Gregson."
The man's smile widened even more, a feat Mark wouldn't have thought was physically possible. Mark got an unwanted look at all the salesman's gleaming capped teeth.
"It's Vic to my friends, amigo," he said. "Let me know which satisfied customer referred you, and I'll send him a gift certificate worth ten percent off any item in the store."
"Roger Standiford," Mark said.
Vic Gregson's smile diminished in size to something that would no longer interest the Guinness Book of World Records. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mark Sloan. I'm helping the FBI and Roger Standiford find your brother."
It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. Mark neglected to mention he was a doctor because he didn't feel like explaining or justifying why the chief of internal medicine at a Los Angeles hospital was hunting down wanted fugitives. He did enough of that at home. Thankfully, Vic Gregson didn't press him on it.
"Why the sudden interest?" Vic asked.
"Someone wants to kill him," Mark said. "We'd like to catch your brother before the killer does."
Vic nodded and wandered over to the widest, tallest, most garish recliner Mark had ever seen. It was about the size of a golf cart, its bloated cushions upholstered in black leather with burled walnut trim along the overpadded armrests.
"We call this the Captain's Chair," Vic said. "It's the recliner for the new millennium."
"I'm not really interested in a recliner," Mark said.
"I'm not really interested in my brother," Vic replied. "This is a sales floor, Mark. You're taking me away from incalculable potential business."
Mark glanced around the store at row after row of recliners. He didn't see a single customer.
"I'll make a deal with you, Mark. I'll answer your questions about Bill if you'll let me tell you about this amazing step forward in recliner technology, styling, and comfort."
"Okay," Mark said.
Vic motioned to the chair. "Sit down, Mark. Experience the opulence and serenity of the Captain's Chair."
Mark sat down in the chair and sank deep into its plush pillows. He was enveloped in warmth, the chair wrapping itself around him like a hug. The recliner felt like his bed first thing in the morning after a nice, long, peaceful sleep. How could something so ugly feel so comfortable?
The salesman beamed, as if reading his mind. "That's comfort-tech engineering, Mark."
"Really?" Mark said, leaning back, the footrest popping up to support his legs. "Tell me about your family."
"We grew up in Kelso, Washington, where my dad had a furniture store. My uncle had this store, and was doing gangbuster business, and invited my dad to join him, so we moved out here," Vic said. "Business was great. Of course, the big boys in furniture noticed and decided to squeeze us out. We went from being the only furniture store in the area to competing with a dozen national chains and major discounters. So we developed a niche, and you're sitting in it. Recliners."
What he'd shared with Mark was the history of United Furniture Company, not the story of the Gregson family. But the more Mark thought about it, perhaps Victor had told him a lot about the Gregsons. The family was all about the furniture business.
"Where did Bill fit in to that?" Mark asked.
"He didn't," Vic said. "He didn't have an affinity for furniture. You're either born with it or you're not."
"I wasn't aware of that," Mark said.
"Frankly, Mark, he didn't have a flair for sales or my natural people skills, either. He'd sit around in the back room, playing with the computer. I had to fire him."
"And that's when he went to work for Standiford Construction?"
"I figured after a few months earning a living doing physical labor, he'd finally appreciate the furniture trade and return to the store, eager to work," Vic said. "Instead, he kidnapped Standiford's daughter."
Something dark passed over Vic's face. Whether it was sadness, pain, or fury, Mark wasn't sure. Whatever emotion it was, Vic quickly pushed it aside with a gargantuan smile and a burst of renewed sales vigor.
"You know why we call this the Captain's Chair?" Vic asked. "Because it puts you in total command of your relaxation."
"Aren't I anyway?"
"You only think you are, Mark." Vic flicked an armrest switch and a thousand "fingers" beneath the supple leather began kneading Mark's muscles. "With this chair, the dream becomes reality."
Mark's tense muscles, from his head to his toes, were loosening up, which was pretty amazing to him because until the massage started, he had no idea his muscles were tense.
"Did Bill have any unusual physical characteristics or behaviors?"
"He started going bald in his twenties," Vic said, "and had the annoying habit of picking his nose in public."
Now all Mark had to do was find a bald millionaire with a finger up his nose. How hard could that be?
"Did you ever meet Stuart Appleby, Diane Love, or Jason Brennan?" Mark said.
"I heard their names for the first time when news broke about the kidnapping," Vic said.
"Kidnapping and murder," Mark corrected.
"Whatever," Vic said, the dark look passing over his face again. He forced a smile. "This recliner is also a multimedia, multitasking experience. You've got a universal remote, a built-in CD player with surround-sound speakers, and a full range of ports and jacks for your Game Boy, headphones, cell phone, and laptop computer."
"Do you ever hear from your brother?" Mark asked.
"The only reason he'd ever call is to ask for money, and he has plenty of that now, so what would be the point? I'd hang up on him, anyway. He's dead to me," Vic said, then motioned to the other armrest. "Did you notice the cup holders, Mark?"
No, he hadn't. In fact, Mark was having trouble noticing anything anymore. It was taking all his willpower just to stay awake.
"Did Bill have any aspirations?"
"Making money without having to work for it," Vic said. "What happens if you run out of beer or chips while sitting in the chair?"
"It gets them for you?"
"Almost, Mark. You press this button here," Vic said, and suddenly his voice was amplified throughout the store. "And you activate the hidden loudspeaker. No matter how far away the kitchen is, they'll hear you when you call."
Vic hit the switch again, turning off the loudspeaker. "You want to know my favorite feature of this remarkable piece of furniture?"
"There's more?" Mark asked.
"You almost never have to leave its soothing embrace," Vic said. "Touch that knob and see for yourself."
Mark touched a knob on the console with his index finger and the chair moved forward with a soft, electric hum. He pushed the knob to the right, and the chair moved in that direction. The recliner wasn't just the size of a golf cart, it traveled like one, too. Mark felt a smile on his face.
He glanced up at Vie. "How much is it?"
Mark left Las Vegas, feeling frustrated and angry with him self, on the 8:00 P.M. flight to L. A. He'd learned more about the recliner than he had about Diane Love, Jason Brennan, or William Gregson.
Rationally, he knew he shouldn't be too hard on himself. What did he expect he'd accomplish in so short a time? The FBI had been on the case for five years; did he really think he'd stumble on a huge revelation in just eight hours? Did he actually believe he was that much smarter than everyone else?
No, he didn't.
But like everyone who goes to Vegas, he went thinking he'd get lucky. Instead of drawing the winning poker hand or landing the winning spin on a slot machine, he'd hoped he'd ask the right question and yield the perfect clue.
That didn't happen.
What did he learn? Patsy Durkin told him her ex-boyfri
end Jason Brennan went to the bathroom all the time and never put the seat down. Karen Cooper told him her former best friend Diane Love dreamed of skiing the Alps. And Vic Gregson revealed his brother, William, liked to pick his nose.
The information, if he could even call it that, was hardly worth the time or airfare.
He had to face reality. The chances that he'd find the three fugitives before Standiford's hit man did were slim. For one thing, the hit man had a five-year head start on him. Mark hadn't made any progress, while his resourceful adversary could already be closing in on one, or all, of his prey.
As the plane lifted off the runway and into the night sky toward Los Angeles, Mark tried to get comfortable in his aisle seat and went over again what little he knew about the case.
Five years ago, four of Roger Standiford's employees kidnapped his daughter, Connie, and buried her alive, thinking she'd be fine with some water and a tube for air. They were tragically wrong.
Standiford paid the $4.5 million ransom and was told where to find his daughter. But he got there too late. She was dead.
That's when the FBI entered the investigation. Meanwhile, the fugitives divided the money and fled, underwent massive plastic surgery, and created new identities for themselves. They successfully eluded the FBI, and the investigation stalled.
As the months wore on, the Standiford case became less and less of a priority. The agents moved on to more pressing cases, revisiting the Standiford case only when time allowed or new developments came up.
But there were no new developments, at least not that the FBI knew about.
At some point, perhaps a year or two down the line, Roger Standiford was contacted by a professional bit man who offered his specialized services to wealthy victims of violent crime. The hit man offered to find the fugitives and kill them, making their deaths look like accidents. Standiford hired him, and somehow this death merchant found one of the fugitives, Stuart Appleby, living in Hawaii under the name Danny Royal.
The hit man tried to make Appleby's murder look like a shark attack and, when that failed, burned down Appleby's house and his restaurant to eradicate any clues and send a warning to the remaining fugitives. In doing so, the killer boldly announced his presence.
Mark had only two clues to go on, neither very promising. One was Steve's observation that Appleby liked puzzle magazines. The second was the discovery of a souvenir menu postcard from the restaurant with a note written on it: RE: IDEAL OVEN, ASK JIM LOWE. A LOOSE, TRENDY COOK. Was the note significant or just a meaningless reminder Appleby had written to himself?
Out of desperation, Mark tried to track down Jim Lowe and, based on the puzzle magazines, even tried arranging the words on the card into others sentences. Neither effort had led anywhere.
That was all he had to go on.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn't really have anything at all.
Mark's initial strategy had been to try to find the fugitives before Standiford's hit man could. But now he could see that wasn't going to work.
He needed a new strategy. There was only one.
Instead of chasing the fugitives, he'd chase their pursuer. The downside was he had even less to go on and, like the hunt for the fugitives, he would be taking a path that had already been well traveled by the FBI.
Even so, Mark started thinking about how he might begin. First, he'd contact Sgt. Ben Kealoha in Kauai and see what, if anything, the detective's investigation into the staged shark attack had revealed. Then he'd see if Steve could help him compile a list of violent crimes involving wealthy families, the killer's client base. It would take time, but once Mark had that list, he could question the families one by one, see if they'd been contacted by the hit man, and hope a lead would turn up.
It occurred to Mark that there was another approach he could take that might yield faster results.
If Mark could find a recent violent crime involving a wealthy family, he might be able to establish contact with them before the hit man did. If he could do that, it might be possible to trap the hit man when he came calling.
That was a lot of ifs, and there were no guarantees any of them would pan out before the hit man found the three fugitives and killed them.
It almost seemed futile.
Mark asked himself why he was putting in so much effort to save the lives of three killers, and almost immediately felt guilty for the thought.
Roger Standiford and Jesse had asked him the same question, and Mark didn't think twice before answering. He didn't doubt the strength of his convictions before, so why was he now?
Weariness and frustration, he told himself. That was all it was. A good night's sleep and some genuine progress in the investigation would erase any thoughts of giving up.
In the meantime, he decided to give his mind a rest, to think of something else besides the case. So he glanced to his right, past the passenger beside him, to the view out the airplane window.
There was no view. Only darkness. Mark sat up in his seat, trying to peer down at the landscape below. More darkness.
So much for a distraction.
That's when Mark noticed, for the first time, the man sitting beside him. He was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, dressed casually in khaki pants and a sand-colored Tommy Hilfiger sweater over a white T-shirt. The man was slumped in his chair, staring intensely at a Bellagio cocktail napkin on his open tray table. A woman had written her name across the top and her phone number below it, the Las Vegas area code included.
Mark glanced at the man's troubled face.
"Is she pretty?" Mark asked.
"Indescribably," the man answered, his voice tinged with longing and sadness.
"Did you click?"
"Like crickets," the man said.
"Is that good?" Mark said.
The man grinned. "Oh yeah."
"So why aren't you thrilled that she gave you her phone number?"
The man sighed and glanced at Mark. "I'm getting married next week."
Mark nodded. "Oh, I see."
"I didn't go looking for this. I came into town on business. I was sitting in the hotel bar, having a drink, and we just struck up a conversation. I wasn't even trying. It never happened like that for me before."
'That's probably why it happened so smoothly. You were just being yourself."
"She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," the man said. "It was as if she'd stepped out of my fantasies."
"My name is Mark Sloan." Mark offered his hand. The man shook it.
"Joey Tremont."
"Do you love your fiancée, Joey?" Mark asked. "Yes," Joey said.
"You're a week away from the biggest commitment of your life," Mark said. "I didn't see this woman you met, but I'm guessing her allure went beyond her physical appearance and sparkling conversation. She represented freedom, excitement, possibility, and youth—everything you fear you're giving up by getting married."
"Aren't I?"
"Of course not," Mark said. "You're about to embark on a personal adventure far more exciting and full of possibilities than anything you've experienced before."
"You don't understand," Joey said. "This woman was like something out of the Sports illustrated Swimsuit issue."
"Your life is about to change, whether you marry the woman you love or pursue this woman you just met. The question is, which change is going to make you a better person, give you lasting happiness, and offer you the chance to explore all your untapped potential?"
"That's a loaded question," Joey said. "It's obvious which choice you think I should make."
"It's not my life," Mark shrugged. "Either way you choose, this woman could easily become the biggest regret of your life."
"That's a big help."
Joey stared at the napkin for a long moment, then crumpled it up and stuffed it into the ashtray in the armrest between the two men.
"Now I'll always have something to fantasize about," Joey said with a grin. "The road
not taken."
"Every life has one or two, Joey."
"Maybe I should tear it up so some other guy doesn't find it and give in to temptation," the man said, glancing out the window. There were lights below as they passed over Victorville, a mining town ninety-seven miles northeast of Los Angeles.
Mark felt that sudden, breathtaking thrill of revelation when one of the blurred notions in his head unexpectedly sharpened into a clear, undeniable truth. The picture was still taking shape as he picked the napkin out of the ashtray.
The man turned and looked at Mark incredulously.
"Don't tell me you talked me out of it just so you could call her," Joey said. "Nothing personal, but I don't think you're her type. Or age."
But Mark wasn't listening. He lowered his tray table, spread the napkin out in front of him, and stared at it. The woman's name was across the top, her area code and phone number written underneath. Her name was two words. Her phone number was ten numbers, spaced in groupings of three, three, and four numbers.
"What are you doing?" Joey asked.
"Solving a puzzle," Mark replied. "It's a word game I've been struggling with. The name and phone number on your napkin gave me an idea how to figure it out."
He took out his pen and wrote Re: Ideal Oven on one line and then, below it, wrote Ask Jim Lowe. And below that he wrote A loose, trendy cook.
And then Mark smiled to himself.
"Well?" Joey asked. "Did you find a hidden message?"
"No," Mark said. "I found a hidden person."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
How could he have not seen it before? It was a puzzle, and a simple one at that. Ideal Oven was two words, an anagram for a person's name. And there was a V in the name of only one of the fugitives: Diane Love.
And in the sentence below, the letters were spaced in groupings of three, three, and four, just like a phone number.
Mark took out his cell phone and matched the letters in the phrase Ask Jim Lowe with the numbers they represented on the keypad.